Wednesday, May 2, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
By May, the Forman house looked like it could breathe again.
The windows were open more often. The air smelled like damp earth and cut grass. Kitty hung laundry outside like it was a ritual of hope. Red stopped stomping around like winter was attacking him personally.
But May came with its own pressure.
Eric's second birthday was approaching—May 19th—and Kitty had started turning it into A Thing the way she turned everything into a thing when she was trying not to think about deeper worries.
"Two!" Kitty kept saying, eyes shining. "He's going to be two!"
Red's response was always the same: "Yeah."
But Monica could see the tiny shift under it.
Red wasn't sentimental, but he noticed time passing.
Time passing meant you couldn't hold everything in place forever.
That afternoon, Kitty announced they were going to town.
"The store," she chirped, tying her apron off like she was gearing up for battle. "We need things."
Laurie perked up. "Candy?"
Kitty smiled too brightly. "No."
Laurie pouted instantly. "Then I'm not going."
Kitty sighed. "Laurie—"
Red, from the living room, muttered without looking up, "Then don't."
Laurie froze, offended.
Kitty's face tightened—because she didn't like Red undermining her.
But she also didn't have the energy to argue.
Monica watched quietly, then did what she'd learned worked best:
She stayed useful.
"I go," Monica said softly, looking up at Kitty.
Kitty's face softened immediately. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Why does she get to go."
Kitty's voice went gentle but strained. "Because Monica wants to come."
Laurie crossed her arms. "I want to come."
Red's newspaper crinkled. "Then stop whining."
Laurie's face flushed, but she couldn't resist the chance to prove herself.
"Fine," Laurie snapped. "I'm coming."
Kitty grabbed Eric and hauled the diaper bag over her shoulder like she was heading into war.
Monica followed to the car, calm.
Red didn't come.
He rarely did, unless Kitty begged, and Kitty had stopped begging.
Kitty drove, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Laurie chattered in the backseat about what she deserved and what she wanted and why everyone was unfair.
Eric babbled nonsense and threw a toy.
Monica stared out the window, watching Point Place slide by—small houses, familiar lawns, people who waved too eagerly.
Kitty's weather was changing.
Monica could feel it.
Kitty was trying to keep everything sunny, but the clouds were there.
At the store, Kitty moved fast, pushing the cart like if she stopped moving, the world would catch her.
Monica sat in the child seat, hands folded, feet swinging slightly.
Laurie trailed alongside, reaching for things she wanted.
Kitty kept saying no.
"Can I have gum?"
"No."
"Can I have a magazine?"
"No."
"Can I have—"
"Laurie."
Kitty's voice had that edge again—the one that showed up when she was tired enough to stop pretending.
Laurie huffed, then—because Laurie always escalated when she didn't get what she wanted—reached into the cart and grabbed a bag of candy.
Kitty spun instantly. "Laurie!"
People turned their heads.
Kitty's cheeks flushed.
Monica watched the nearby adults—women in patterned dresses, men in work jackets—watching Kitty like they were waiting for her to fail.
Laurie held the candy bag tighter, chin lifted in defiance.
Kitty's hands trembled slightly. "Put it back."
Laurie narrowed her eyes. "No."
Kitty's jaw tightened.
Monica felt the familiar cold drop.
Because public battles were Kitty's nightmare.
And public battles were Laurie's favorite stage.
Kitty reached for the candy.
Laurie yanked it away, and the bag crinkled loudly.
A man near the end of the aisle gave a small, judgmental snort.
Kitty heard it. Kitty always heard everything.
Kitty's voice sharpened, too loud. "Laurie, put it back right now."
Laurie's eyes gleamed—because Kitty had raised her voice.
That meant Kitty was losing control.
That meant Laurie was winning.
Monica's mind moved fast.
Red's rule echoed in her head:
Ask. Don't grab.
So Monica used it.
Monica leaned forward in her seat, pointed at the candy in Laurie's hand, and said in a clear toddler voice—loud enough for Kitty and Laurie and the aisle to hear:
"Laurie didn't ask."
The words landed like a slap.
Kitty froze.
Laurie froze.
Even the people watching paused, because now it wasn't just a bratty kid and a tired mom.
Now it was a quiet child pointing out a rule.
Kitty's face shifted—relief mixed with embarrassment.
Laurie's face flushed hot, eyes darting toward the watching adults.
Because Laurie didn't like being corrected by Kitty.
But she hated being corrected by Monica.
Kitty seized the opening, voice suddenly calmer. "That's right. You didn't ask."
Laurie's mouth opened to scream, but the eyes in the aisle were still on her.
So Laurie did something else.
She shoved the candy bag into the cart with a dramatic slam, then turned away, arms crossed, pretending she'd chosen to give up.
Kitty exhaled shakily and pushed the cart forward fast, like fleeing.
Monica kept her face calm.
But inside, she noted the pattern again:
Point Place always watched Kitty.
Kitty always felt it.
And Laurie always exploited it.
At checkout, Kitty bought groceries and birthday supplies—streamers, paper plates, candles.
Eric tried to grab everything on the counter.
Kitty kept apologizing. "Oh, I'm sorry—he's two soon—well, almost—"
The cashier smiled politely, but her eyes flicked to Monica.
Quiet child.
Observant child.
Monica smiled softly and said, "Thank you."
The cashier blinked, surprised.
Then her smile warmed—just a little. "Well aren't you polite."
Kitty's shoulders loosened.
Monica understood: every time Monica performed "good," Kitty got to feel like she wasn't failing.
That was part of the bond between them.
Not closeness.
Not comfort.
Support.
______
Back home, Red was in the living room, half watching TV, half pretending he wasn't thinking about anything.
Kitty burst through the door like she'd survived something.
"Red," Kitty called, breathless. "We're back."
Red glanced up. "I noticed."
Kitty started unloading groceries with frantic energy.
Laurie sulked at the table.
Eric toddled around, trying to yank streamers from the bag.
Monica slid off the stool and began quietly carrying light things—napkins, paper plates—to the counter.
Kitty noticed immediately. "Oh, Monica, thank you, honey."
Red's eyes flicked toward Monica—brief, measuring.
Monica didn't look at him.
She didn't need to.
She could feel the approval like warmth.
Kitty—unable to keep it in—blurted, "Laurie tried to steal candy."
Laurie snapped, loud. "I did not steal it!"
Kitty's voice rose. "You grabbed it and you refused to put it back—"
Red's expression hardened instantly. "Laurie."
Laurie stiffened.
Red's voice stayed low. "Don't argue with your mother."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "She yelled at me."
Red's jaw tightened. "And you deserved it."
Kitty's eyes shone—tired tears again. "Red…"
Red didn't soften. "Kids don't run the house."
Monica carried another stack of plates to the counter and set them down gently, then stepped back like she belonged in the background.
Laurie stared at Monica, anger simmering.
"You told," Laurie muttered.
Monica blinked innocently. "Truth."
Laurie's face twisted. "You always—"
Red's voice cut in, sharp. "Enough."
Laurie fell silent instantly, lips trembling.
Kitty exhaled, rubbing her forehead like she had a headache behind her eyes. "I'm just… tired."
Red grunted. "Then sit."
Kitty blinked at him, surprised.
Red nodded toward the chair. "Sit. I'll finish unloading."
Kitty's mouth parted.
It wasn't tenderness.
But it was… something.
Kitty sat slowly, hands in her lap, watching Red move through the kitchen, putting things away with efficient irritation.
Laurie watched too, stunned—because Red helping Kitty wasn't common.
Monica watched with careful eyes.
This was important.
Red didn't offer softness. Red offered solutions.
And right now, Kitty needed a solution more than a smile.
When Red finished, he wiped his hands on a towel and looked at Kitty.
"You're doing too much," he muttered, like it annoyed him.
Kitty's laugh was small and shaky. "Well… someone has to."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. And someone has to tell you to stop."
Kitty blinked harder, tears threatening.
Red turned away like he couldn't handle it, then looked at Monica instead.
"How's my kid," he muttered, rough.
Monica straightened slightly. "Good, Dad."
Red grunted, satisfied. "Good."
Then he walked back into the living room like the moment hadn't happened.
Kitty sat at the table for a long time, breathing.
Monica drifted toward her, small and quiet, and rested a hand against Kitty's arm.
Kitty looked down at Monica, eyes soft and exhausted. "Thank you," Kitty whispered, like Monica had saved her from drowning.
Monica smiled gently.
Inside, she thought with adult clarity:
Kitty's love wasn't the fierce, certain kind Red gave when he chose you.
Kitty's love was weather.
Warm when the sun was out.
Fragile when storms rolled in.
And Monica—Monica was learning how to be the thing that steadied Kitty when the pressure got too heavy.
Not because Monica wanted to be a comfort object.
But because a steady Kitty meant fewer explosions.
A steady Kitty meant fewer wars.
A steady Kitty meant survival.
That night, Monica added a new item to her Future Box:
One of the unused birthday candles Kitty had dropped on the counter—small, white, unlit.
A symbol of time.
A symbol of what was coming.
Eric's birthday would arrive soon.
Two years old.
Another milestone.
Another performance.
Another moment where Red, Kitty, Laurie, and Monica would each reveal who they were becoming.
Monica closed the box carefully, climbed into bed, and stared into the dark.
Spring had arrived.
But Monica could already feel it:
In Point Place, warmth never lasted long without something trying to spoil it.
So Monica stayed ready.
Always.